


Surprise Developments (Recalculating)

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agents of Fen'Harel (Dragon Age), Childbirth, DAPromptExchange, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Female Friendship, Past Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28862904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Amid the reports of his many agents, Solas gets a particularly interesting crumb from ears in Skyhold: it seems Inquisitor Lavellan is pregnant.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor & Vivienne (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Inquisitor & Vivienne (Dragon Age), Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307045
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	1. Siobhan Reports to Fen'Harel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off [ this prompt ](https://dapromptexchange.tumblr.com/post/160269638099/) from the dapromptexchange which was: 
> 
> "The inquisitor finds out that Solas left her with more than a broken heart - she is pregnant. She also discovers Solas’ true identity. Does she hide her pregnancy? Disappear somewhere? How will the companions react and what are the consequences of bearing a child of the Dread Wolf? How would Solas react?"
> 
> I couldn't resist the chance to give it a shot--what Solavellans _haven't_ toyed with this sort of AU? This features Siobhan (shih-von), an agent of Fen'Harel who plays a similar role in [Observations For the Dread Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812721).

Reporting directly to Fen’Harel was like taking a shot of straight lyrium—or so Siobhan imagined. The breathless racing of her heart at being in the same room with him felt far headier than anything she’d ingested before, even though he had told her at the start of this debriefing that she didn’t need to stand so straight and she _certainly_ didn’t need to get onto her knees.

“Yes, my lord,” she had replied in a high, breathy voice, feeling her heart stutter in her chest. She’d never in all her life seen an elf so finely armored in person. He looked like he’d stepped right out of one of grandma’s stories about Dalish Halamshiral, or Arlathan, and being framed by the tall, arching window behind the vast table on which he laid out his plans only added to the mystique. The bookshelves filled with secrets Siobhan didn’t know, the notes scratched out on parchment scattered around the map that took up much of the table…she had the sudden urge to pinch herself.

“There’s no need for that either,” he told her, unease in his expression. “Finian tells me you have a report on the Inquisition.”

“I do,” she agreed, and began. She had been contacted by Fen’Harel’s agents mere months after Corypheus’ ignominious defeat, and when she had agreed to join the cause, she had been shipped off to Skyhold to apply for a job. Quartermaster Morris had brought her on, as many were looking to depart with the primary work of the Inquisition done, and Siobhan had made every effort to get in touch with Inquisitor Lavellan herself. Here was where her ears were a boon—Inquisitor Lavellan supposedly loved the chance to bring her own into the Inquisition, and wished most fervently for their success. She had expected the inquisitor, she supposed, to be a more suspicious type. “I met the inquisitor a few months back.”

Siobhan had told herself to be patient, but every day that passed with her no more than a nobody servant minding the halls frustrated her. There was no _purpose_ to her being here if she was not _close_ to Lavellan! But none of her scheming had gotten her into those hallowed quarters yet—not until she “chanced” to be around when the Inquisitor needed to carry a vast stack of books back to her room. After that, each little push into the inquisitor’s life was easier, until it was Siobhan that the Inquisitor looked for when she needed something.

Even when his gaze wandered from her, Siobhan felt that Fen’Harel listened; he had brought her into this room to soak up all the knowledge he could from her, and he did not waste his resources. He paced behind the table, and drew his fingers along the smooth wood, some deep machinations at work in his mind that Siobhan could not fathom. Her mother had scoffed at the stories of old elven gods—what would she say now, to Siobhan standing before one?

“So you are close to the inquisitor?” he asked.

“Yes, my—yes. I see her every morning and every night, and she trusts me to run her letters to the rookery. Sometimes she tells me about her clan, and if I ask her for stories about the Inquisition, she gives them up.”

Fen’Harel’s hand stilled on the table, his face drawing, like the close of curtains over a window. Then his stormy gray gaze snapped up to Siobhan’s, and she felt a shiver run up her back.

“What stories does she tell?”

“Oh, silly things, mostly,” Siobhan said, trying to keep a dismissive note from her voice. Fen’Harel seemed wary of the Inquisitor—he treated her like a rival, which Siobhan wasn’t sure was warranted. His power and cunning far outstripped hers; Siobhan did not foresee much trouble from the Inquisition—not when Fen’Harel and his agents were up to fighting form. “The time Sera nearly drove Commander Cullen mad by making the legs of his desk uneven; some noble that Lady Montilyet put in his place; the time some _shem_ or another ended up spending an entire afternoon carving toys for some children in some village.” Siobhan could have told him the entire stories if he wanted them; her memory was sharp, which was part of why Finian trusted her with this assignment. “Nothing that really matters. I don’t think she likes talking about the serious stuff.”

Slowly, Fen’Harel nodded, and seemed to pull himself from some distant place to be present with Siobhan again. Could he feel the press of the Veil? Siobhan had no idea what a mage of his power might be aware of as a matter of course.

“And she does not mean to disband the Inquisition?”

“Not yet,” Siobhan confirmed. Another nod—other agents had reported the same. “The talk among her folk is there’s clean-up still to be done. I think she just—”

“Thank you,” Fen’Harel interrupted, and Siobhan fell silent at once. “Among her advisors—are they all still present?”

“Sister Nightingale is going to be called off soon,” Siobhan said, as she had told Finian last month. “Everyone seems to be saying she’s going to be elected the next divine.”

“Her or…” Fen’Harel’s gaze turned to the map spread out between them on the table, and although he moved nothing on it, Siobhan could see the pieces shifting and turning in his mind, testing first one strategy, then another, like a chess player trying to follow the possible chain reactions of each potential move. “And the others?”

“Lady Montilyet, Commander Cullen, and Seeker Pentaghast are all still there,” she said. “Others come and go.” Frankly she wasn’t sure how important the others were. Sera had left just after Siobhan joined, gone galivanting off with her Red Jennys, and Thom Rainier had been sent to the Grey Wardens not long before that. There were a few others who kept Inquisitor Lavellan company, but none with the political weight of the advisory panel.

“What about First Enchanter Vivienne, our so-called _Madame de Fer_?” Fen’Harel asked.

Siobhan knew her—a human with a chilly stare, a proud jaw, and sharper observation than anyone ought to have. All Siobhan knew of Vivienne she knew from Lavellan herself, because she had never _once_ managed to catch Vivienne in conversation with the inquisitor. The statuesque Orlesian mage would simply wait for Siobhan to leave, no matter _how_ long it took her to finish whatever task she was pretending to do. It drove her to distraction, because Inquisitor Lavellan and Madame Vivienne spoke so _often!_ She knew the Inquisitor trusted Vivienne, but it was apparent Vivienne did not trust _her_ —though what she, a lowly elven servant, could have _possibly_ done to earn the mistrust of this powerful human mage she hadn’t the _slightest_ idea ( _that_ was what got her more than anything—she was so careful, and ought to be below the notice of _anyone_ but her fellow servants, and yet _somehow_ Madame Vivienne was put off her, as if she could _sense_ Siobhan was not to be trusted).

“She’s still there,” Siobhan confirmed grudgingly. “If she’s going to book it soon, I don’t know about it. She never talks around me. But she and Lavellan twitter away like birds. They spar together, too. If I can win her over, I’m sure I can hear some of what they say.”

Fen’Harel gave a sharp exhale through his nose, almost like a snort.

“I would not waste too much of my time with that,” he said. “Madame Vivienne is not the _trusting_ sort. Certainly not as far as her reputation in Orlais is concerned.” Siobhan marveled at how much Fen’Harel knew personally. With his network of spies, he could have sat back and simply managed them, but he seemed to have encyclopedic knowledge of everything they told him. Then again, if he merely managed them, he would not accomplish nearly as much. 

“What about Master Pavus?” Fen’Harel asked, plucking his quill from its rest to make a note on the parchment he had been working at when Siobhan was let in. “Has he had enough of the south yet?”

“I think so,” Siobhan said. “He talks a lot with the Inquisitor too, but he never notices me. He’s planning on going back to Tevinter soon. He’s homesick and says he has business in Minrathous.”

“The inquisitor is in agreement with that?”

“Not really,” Siobhan said with a shrug. “She won’t keep him there. But she’s always asking him to stay ‘just a bit longer, Dorian.’ She’s managed to convince him this long, but he’s finally put his foot down, and she got weepy about it.” Imagine—the _inquisitor_ , crying! “Says he wishes he could stay, but he can’t. Probably will keep in touch with her though—there was lots of hugging after that.”

“I see.” More scratching on the parchment. “Lady Montilyet, she doesn’t think he should stay?”

“The Inquisition is adjusting, she says,” Siobhan reported. “From a battle force to a peacekeeping force. They’re not beggars anymore, and they’ll have work for quite a long while with all the damage in Thedas what needs repairing. Only thing I’ve heard her say to Pavus about it is that Lavellan’ll miss him. Otherwise, she’s happy to buy him a ticket back home.”

“Mm.” Fen’Harel straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back, surveying the map of Thedas in silence. Siobhan waited with him. It was always a marvel to her how calm and soft his voice was. The first time she heard the Dread Wolf speak, she had expected something savage, she supposed. Something deep and booming, reminiscent of a wolf’s guttural growl. But he had a gentle bearing. Not _weak_ , but neither easily provoked. With this gentility, he persuaded his agents into sharing as much as they knew, as well as their ideas and speculations, so they felt almost that they worked _with_ him, not _for_ him.

“There’s something else, my lord,” Siobhan said, holding her breath as soon as she spoke. Most masters did not care to hear the ideas of their servants—Siobhan had tasted the back of a hand before for it.

“Yes?” Fen’Harel lifted his eyes to her face. 

“I...I don’t know if it’s important to us really,” she said, “but it will change her attitude and she may…think differently about running the Inquisition. But I’m not sure yet; it’s early to tell.”

“What is it?”

Siobhan took a breath.

“I think the inquisitor is going to have a baby.”

Fen’Harel went wholly still, like an animal poised to leap. He didn’t even seem to breath, and Siobhan was sure of one thing: she had his attention (and so, her worst fear, that he would dismiss her theorizing as a foolish waste of time, was dispelled).

“What makes you think that?” His voice was so low it was barely a whisper, and Siobhan almost leaned forward to try to hear better. “Are you certain? Has someone told you this?”

“No, nobody said so. She seems peaky in the mornings though, and she sleeps later than usual,” Siobhan said. “I’ve seen lots of pregnant women in the alienage. There are just…things. She holds herself different. She walks different. If it’s true, she must have an idea. She hasn’t told anyone that I heard.” She waited for another question, but Fen’Harel said nothing else. With a sharp jerk of a movement, he turned away from the table and its map, and strode to the bookshelves, which he looked at, and did not touch. He paced back to the table, and then over to the shelves again.

“You’re right, Siobhan,” he said. “This could change the way she approaches the Inquisition. Please keep an eye on it; I would like to know what else you can learn. Make sure you stay close to her. You are her maid and already she trusts you—make yourself her friend, and there is nothing she will keep from you. I would like you to report directly to me, going forward,” he added, turning to face her with that placid, coaxing voice that sounded like Siobhan could well turn him down if she chose. “I will speak with Finian, if that’s well with you.”

“Yes, of course, my lord!” Siobhan bobbed her head. “I would be so grateful!” Excitement burst in her chest like the crush of a fresh grape on her tongue. Reporting directly to the Dread Wolf! Perhaps someday _she_ would tell _Finian_ what to do!

“Good. Thank you, Siobhan. You may go. Send Finian in, please.”

Siobhan bowed and curtseyed and backed out of the office, and could barely stop herself from clicking her heels as she skipped down the hall to where Finian was writing correspondence.

“Lord Fen’Harel wants to see you,” she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the office, unable to stop the grin from pulling at her face, making the splash of freckles across the middle of her face wink, and showing a wonky lower row of teeth, and canines pointed more _in_ than _down_.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, setting his quill down with a faint frown.

“I’m to report directly to Fen’Harel now,” she said, not bothering to try to keep the smugness from her voice. Without waiting for a response, she turned sharply and carried on down the hall, her grin spreading from ear-to-ear. Make friends with the inquisitor—that shouldn’t be too hard to do, and how Fen’Harel would reward her!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/640780216165416960/surprise-developments-recalculating) | [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/2003560)


	2. Vivienne Proposes a Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand Lavellan enters the scene \0/ ! She is Guinevere, from my own Solavellan playthrough, and you can see more about her on her [tumblr tag](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/tagged/guinevere%20lavellan), including [this fantastic commission](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/186097511775/yaaaaaaall-i-am-dying-over-this-commission-i-got) of happier times between her and Solas :')

“Madame Vivienne.” Ambassador Montilyet’s voice was forever gracious, as if she had been raised since childhood to be a tiny hostess, as if she had never had an ill thought about a body in her life. The way Vivienne worked in ice, Josephine worked in gentility (she had other weapons too, though, and Vivienne quite enjoyed Leliana’s tales of _those_ ). “It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Such formalities were hardly in short supply among the nobility, yet in Josephine’s warm voice, even Vivienne was tempted to believe it. Lovely Josephine—perhaps she was even genuine. “Although…I sense this is not a visit merely for personal pleasure.” She gestured, and Vivienne lowered herself into the seat before Lady Montilyet’s desk. A cozy fire crackled in Josephine’s hearth, which gave the room a welcoming glow in all but the warmest of Skyhold’s summer days, and there was a stack of recently-stamped letters stacked aside on Josephine’s wide desk, awaiting delivery to the rookery to be sent out. For all her busyness, Josephine kept a remarkably organized workspace.

“I’m afraid not, dear,” Vivienne said. “We must talk about Guinevere.”

“Yes…I had hoped things would calm down after Corypheus’ defeat, but there are still many who seek her audience, the attention of the Inquisition…” Josephine frowned, the picture of a concerned friend, but it wasn’t the inquisitor’s friend Vivienne wanted to talk to—it was the ambassador.

“I’m more concerned with other things,” Vivienne told her frankly. “You may be young, but you’re a woman. You must have noticed that she’s…in a delicate condition.” Ambassador Montilyet’s hand jerked so quickly to the side she overturned her inkwell and had to scramble to tip it upright again, and she snapped her eyes up to Vivienne’s.

“ _What?”_

“Oh. I’m sorry my dear, I thought you knew,” Vivienne said, mildly surprised. But then, there was so much that drew Ambassador Montilyet’s attention, perhaps she could not be faulted for failing to notice Guinevere’s state. How sweet—she did seem truly taken aback.

“Wh…are you _certain_?”

“Positive.”

“But she’s not married!” This wasn’t to inform Vivienne of something she already knew, so much as it was an exclamation of dismay.

“I know.” And the way Vivienne said it was enough to tell Ambassador Montilyet she knew what that meant. If it got out, the scandal! Suddenly it wouldn’t matter what she had accomplished, what she was still doing—only that the elven inquisitor had conceived a child out of wedlock, with no prospect on the horizon, because neither Josephine nor Vivienne needed to guess twice about who the father might be, and not even the indominable Leliana had been able to track him down since he vanished from their world as cleanly and completely as a rabbit from the hat of a court magician.

“In any case, she told me herself this morning.” That would make the conversation slightly easier—they weren’t breaking anything to Guinevere she didn’t already know. And Vivienne knew that if she had admitted it, she had probably already given considerable thought to what the ripple effect would be. “We need a plan.”

“Oh, dear.” Josephine bit the inside of her cheek, and Vivienne could see the gears turning in her mind, churning out half-formed plans and casting them away as unsuitable in the same breath. “We need to get her out of Skyhold.”

“You mean to confine her somewhere?”

“You disagree?” The ambassador must have picked it up from Vivienne’s tone; her eyes refocused on the former Enchanter to the Imperial Court and she waited.

“I think to remove her from her position is to invite even worse speculation,” Vivienne said candidly. “You know how these things go. The moment word gets out that she has retired from the public eye, there will be stories from every which way about what terrible thing has caused her retreat.”

“But stories only,” Josephine countered. “They will have no evidence, and many will dismiss them as rumor.”

“But many will not, and given the high-profile nature of dear Guinevere’s position, there are many who are _eager_ to see her fall to scandal. She is still an elf, and a mage, and a potential _threat_. And even if she were not, there is nothing the gossip mill enjoys more than tearing down the high and mighty.”

“If we seclude her, we can possibly…” Ambassador Montilyet trailed off, a frown tugging down the corners of her mouth, a slight furrow in her brow. Even she had no taste for whatever she meant to propose, which did not make it hard to speculate.

“Do away with the child?” Vivienne guessed. Secreting away a pregnant woman and putting the child with a different family once it was born to avoid scandal was hardly an untried technique. “Do you really think Guinevere would part with it?”

“No,” Josephine sighed. The furrow deepened briefly, and she looked again to Vivienne. “What would you have us do?”

“I think we would do better to keep her here, and conceal it as best we can,” Vivienne said. “Avoid the gossip as long as possible, keep her safe from anyone who might wish her harm in such a state, and once it’s born, she will simply have to claim it. We cannot both keep the child a secret, and keep Guinevere in touch with it. You know her; you know she would never willingly part with a child of her blood to be raised with another family. Everyone will know it’s hers; we will simply have to act as if she has done nothing wrong.” Furthermore, by keeping her in her position, if there were any accusations of potential scandal, they could simply shrug off any suggestion they were keeping secrets—after all, the inquisitor was right there! If no one noticed she was with child, that was not the _Inquisition’s_ fault. They could hardly be blamed for the myopic view of those who failed to see what was right in front of them!

“But what people will say!” Josephine lamented. “Oh…” She rubbed her forehead, and Vivienne could see her inwardly wailing at the damage to the pristine reputation she had fought so hard to create for the inquisitor.

“It would be easier on all of us if this hadn’t happened,” Vivienne acknowledged with a sympathetic look. “Guinevere is well aware of that. But it has, so we must manage it as best we can. If there are questions, we must deflect by reminding them of all the good she has done as Inquisitor, and all the work the Inquisition continues to do.”

“I know you’re right,” Ambassador Montilyet replied. “But I had hoped we’d seen our last scandal with Blackwall…Life is rarely so clean cut,” she added with chagrin.

“Indeed it is not.”

***

“…so we think the best thing is to keep you here, and keep you about your duties as long as we can,” Josephine concluded, clasping her hands in front of her before her desk. Guinevere nodded, steadily avoiding the ambassador’s gaze with her arms folded across her chest, hands grasping her elbows, as she had been doing since she entered, like a child called before a guardian to be scolded.

“You’re not being punished, my dear,” Vivienne told her gently, putting her hands lightly on Guinevere’s upper arms from just behind her. “You know there are those who would seek to take advantage of your vulnerable state; by keeping it amongst ourselves, we prevent that. Once the child is born, there is no question that you will claim it.”

Guinevere swallowed hard, and gave another terse nod. Vivienne had never approved of Guinevere’s relationship with Solas, in large part because she did not consider Solas _worthy_ of it (and she was proven _right_ when he fled in the immediate aftermath of Corypheus’ defeat, after breaking Guinevere’s heart), but there was still a sharp ache in her breast for the hunch of her friend’s shoulders and the closed look of her face. _Sentimentality is not an option_ , she had once told Guinevere. Not for those who value survival. And yet…if not for Guinevere’s sentimentality, Vivienne might have missed her last moments with Bastien, chasing that cure on her own. On that, she could not put a value.

“I will have to have new clothes.” Guinevere said it so quietly the first time that Josephine had to ask her to repeat herself.

“Yes, of course,” Vivienne agreed at once, stepping away and moving to look Guinevere over from the front. “With your frame, we’ll need to tailor them carefully, but I think it can be done. It will get harder with time, of course, but one step at a time.”

“Who can do it?” Guinevere turned a hopeful gaze on Vivienne, who had to shake her head.

“You need someone with more precision than I can offer you for this. But I have someone in mind, and she can be discreet. And we can give her some extra incentive.” Guinevere groaned quietly and covered her face with her good hand.

“This is already spreading,” she said. “How will we ever keep it between us? Does Leliana know?”

“I told no one but Ambassador Montilyet,” Vivienne assured her.

“Leliana should know,” Guinevere murmured.

The months since the culmination of their ultimate battle had been as a storm-tossed sea. Guinevere had not yet finished mourning Dorian’s departure back to Tevinter when she came to Vivienne with the news of the baby, and she looked _worn out_ , for which Vivienne could hardly blame her. She bolstered and encouraged her as much as she could, but she was concerned Guinevere was reaching a breaking point. _Perhaps_ , said a thought in the back of her mind, _it would not be such a bad thing if she returned home._

“We’ll tell her,” Josephine said.

“I can tell her,” Guinevere said. “This is my problem. I should tell her. I should…” She took in a deep breath. “Well, I suppose I can wait to tell Keeper Deshanna until after…” Yes, that was another thing—she had been away from her clan over two years by then. What feeling that inspired in her, Vivienne could not imagine, but Guinevere had spoken so often and so fondly of them, she knew that her prolonged absence must trouble her (separate and apart from any political crises taking place in which her clan centered).

“You might invite her to come visit Skyhold,” Vivienne suggested. _To see the baby_ , she didn’t say. “It is, after all, _your_ castle.” Almost to Vivienne’s surprise, that seemed to work to perk Guinevere up a bit.

“Yes, maybe I could do that,” she agreed, though she appeared unconvinced by the characterization of Skyhold. “Vivienne…when can you bring this tailor in?”

“I’ll write her today,” Vivienne promised.

“And inquisitor—” Guinevere winced at the title, “—please remember, we are on your side,” Ambassador Montilyet said. “If there is another way you prefer to do things, we can discuss that. We want to help you.” Another dispassionate nod.

“I’m just sorry I got us into this mess, and for…” She heaved a sigh and shook her head.

“These things happen,” Josephine said, softening her voice. “Not infrequently. You are not alone in this, inquisitor. Guinevere.”

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” Guinevere said lowly, looking at the two women. “I don’t know what I would do without you. Leave the Inquisition, I suppose.”

“It’s no trouble,” Josephine said at the same time Vivienne replied, “We do these things for our friends, dear.”

“Still,” Guinevere insisted, a touch of hoarseness in her voice. “I…I am grateful. I fear I will never be able to properly thank you for everything you’ve done since the Inquisition was formed.”

“We’re a team,” Ambassador Montilyet said firmly. “This is no different than any other situation we’ve faced.” A watery smile crossed Guinevere’s face.

“Why don’t we get you something warm to drink?” Vivienne suggested, gesturing out of the ambassador’s office. “We can consider some possible designs to give Aurelie when she arrives.” Guinevere nodded with more certainty.

“Yes, we should start planning,” she agreed. “We still have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Gwen, we are not seeing her at her best :(
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/641126911980994561/surprise-developments-recalculating) | [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/2011783)


	3. Siobhan Observes and Specualtes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all your Solavellan feels, here's a link to my ever-growing [Spotify playlist for Gwen and Solas](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/63bRKDmu4uJZjrl9BMjWmr?si=5dVq90bRTUKCe-U1WeY9Cw). Feel free to share any must-have Solavellan songs you know!

Early morning sunlight was drifting through the tall, narrow windows, bathing the room in a light whose divinity was perhaps only _increased_ by Siobhan’s grogginess (the Great Wolf himself, standing before the windows, seemed positively illuminated, and for a dumb moment, reminded her of the backlit statutes of Andraste in the chantries). For a few seconds, she put all her energy into stopping a yawn before it started. It was possible that Finian had dragged her out of bed at this stupid hour of the morning to report to Fen’Harel purposefully to inconvenience her, the pale-eyed demon—although he claimed to be above Siobhan’s “petty vengeances”—but even if it was, it didn’t matter. She’d gladly wake before the cock’s crow to serve however she could.

“I was right,” she announced. “She must be four or five months along now. Having to work to hide it now.”

The long fingers of one of Fen’Harel’s hands stroked the tabletop and he was silent. Perhaps he too, was displeased with the early hour? There seemed to be faint shadows under his eyes—or it was just the lighting. Siobhan found it hard to imagine him put off by something as simple as rising early, but then, he was constantly working. When did he rest, she wondered? Did a god need to rest? Did a god need to eat?

“And how do you think she is taking it?”

“Crying a lot,” Siobhan said with a soft huff through her nose. “Probably on account of daddy’s nowhere to be found. The Inquisition’s having a right fit trying to figure out how to keep folks from spreading gossip that Lady Inquisitor is having a baby out of wedlock. Madame Vivienne’s got a special tailor from Orlais in to fit all the inquisitor’s clothes to try to hide the bump, but it’s getting hard. Lady Lavellan’s not too happy. I rub her feet sometimes, ‘cause they’re swelling now, and she tells me about her clan. I think she wants to go home, but she don’t want to leave the Inquisition high and dry.”

Fen’Harel said nothing, and Siobhan hesitated. Usually by now, he redirected her to something specific in her report that he was interested in, but that day he was just letting her ramble.

“Wonder who it was that did the deed?” she pondered aloud. “Nobody has said. They just talk about this fellow like everyone already knows who he is. Could be this whole thing will take the inquisitor down before you have sneeze at them, my lord.”

“I would not wish for that,” Fen’Harel said at once. “Does the Inquisition not plan to confine her?”

“No, they’re keeping her on at Skyhold. She’s watching herself, but she’s still doing all her things just like before.” Siobhan paused, waiting for more direction from Fen’Harel, but he gave none, so she went on: “She brought me to Val Royeaux for Sister Nightingale—er, I guess she’s _Divine Victoria_ now—for her crowning and all. Heard them talking in the divine’s rooms before, about how Lady Lavellan needs new dresses. Ones she got are too tight now, and Victoria wants to shift the fashion in Orlais to have more…I believe _volume_ was the word she used. Make the dresses wider, with more fabric, so it’s easier to hide her belly. She’s setting Madame Vivienne on it, too. If all the ladies are wearing big skirts, Lady Lavellan won’t stand out. It’s pretty smart, I thought.” Although Sister Nightingale—Divine Victoria—was an adversary, Siobhan couldn’t help but have a twinge of respect for her cleverness.

“Those two do think of almost everything,” Fen’Harel murmured. “Do you think it will work?” Siobhan snorted.

“Any woman who’s had a baby knows what a woman in the family way looks like. It’s not just the belly. Men, you might fool. Young ladies what haven’t had no babies, or ever spent time around a mother-to-be, too. But some grown woman who’s had some of her own? That’s another story. She’s got to be real careful, and real lucky.” 

“But she does not intend to step down as inquisitor?” Siobhan shook her head.

“No, my lord.”

“There’s no need for that, Siobhan.”

“Sincerest apologies. No, she’s not leaving. Don’t know what she’ll do once the babe’s actually here, but I don’t know if we can count on her leaving then either.”

Fen’Harel accepted this in the same silence he had taken most of her report, and his eyes went on studying things Siobhan could not see. With a deep breath he seemed to come back into himself, one hand curling into a fist on the table, and he said:

“What about their vashoth mercenary? Is he still with them?”

“The Iron Bull and the Chargers? They’re…around. They been taking their own jobs dealing with some of those demons what are still around, but they pay a visit to Skyhold now and again. The Inquisitor seems fond of the big Qunari. Anyway, I don’t think they’re really with the Inquisition anymore.”

“How well are they keeping their secret within the Inquisition?”

“Well at least three people know, but they’re all ladies, and I think all of them’d keep her secrets close. It’s Ambassador Montilyet, Madame Vivienne, and Seeker Pentaghast. And Divine Victoria, but she’s gone of course. Everyone else doesn’t seem to have caught on yet. It’s just me that goes into her room, so none of the other servants see her as much as I do. She knows I know, but we don’t talk about it.”

“It’s good that she hasn’t sent you away,” he murmured. “She trusts you, as I knew she would.” Abruptly, he grimaced and turned away towards the window, hands clasped behind his back, rigid as the stone statues that guarded the Dalish camps. Siobhan heard him draw in a long, rough breath, and then he waved a dismissive hand. “Thank you, Siobhan. I am grateful for your assistance.” Fen’Harel always thanked her, as if she were doing him a favor, rather than a job.

“Of course, my lord Fen’Harel.” Siobhan curtseyed and bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Fen’Harel sentinel at the window. As she shut the door, she thought she heard the sound of something heavy hitting the table with considerable force.

Fen’Harel had not told her to send Finian in, but he was at the desk in the office next door, as he often was when she came to give her reports (keeping an eye on her?), so Siobhan stopped by, meandering in and browsing the bookshelf as if there could be anything of interest in it for her.

“Do you need something?” Finian asked, lifting his gaze to her.

“No, Fen’Harel hasn’t asked for you yet,” she said, turning promptly away from the books, most of which she could not read. “Must please you,” she remarked. “You bringing me on, and now me reporting to him directly. You pick ‘em good, huh?” Finian’s flat expression was unchanged as Siobhan grinned at him.

“I’m thrilled,” he intoned. “Let’s be professional, shall we, Siobhan?”

“I wonder who the daddy is. Don’t you?” She wandered over to his desk and peered over his shoulder, though his slanted, jagged writing was hard to put together. “Who in the M—who in Elgar'nan’s name knocked up the _inquisitor_ and ran off? You think he died?”

“Wouldn’t the Inquisition tell that tale if it was true?” Finian asked. “The tragedy of a young mother with a lost lover would play far more sympathetically than an unwed mother with a bastard baby and a man who didn’t want her.”

“Huh.” It was annoyingly logical, and Siobhan was irritated with herself for speaking before she’d thought of it herself. “But who wouldn’t stick around for it? He’d practically be second-in-command of the Inquisition!”

“Maybe she didn’t want him around,” Finian suggested.

“Bull,” Siobhan replied with a snort. “She’s crying all the time. Caught her singing some lullaby to a lost lover on the balcony a few weeks back. She wants him around. He’s just not here. A dumb fish, if you ask me. I’d have stayed.”

“I’m sure you would have,” Finian said in a tone Siobhan didn’t much care for, turning his attention back to the scout reports in front of him.

“You think it’s a _shem_? Oh, maybe it’s some _shem_ and she can’t stand the thought of everyone knowing it, so she told him to get lost but she still—”

“I think you have better things to do than speculate as to the father of the inquisitor’s child, and I _know_ that I do.”

Siobhan huffed and sashayed away from the desk, towards the door.

“You’re _no_ fun.”

***

The inquisitor had gone out last week, on a combination diplomatic/rescue mission to south Crestwood, and the team came back reeking of rotting flesh, dank mud, and other things on which Siobhan did not care to speculate. Inquisitor Lavellan trudged out of Skyhold’s stables looking like she could barely keep on her feet, and behind her Cole, the troubling spirit-boy, Seeker Pentaghast, and Varric Tethras trailed along, each bedraggled in their own way. The seeker hovered at the inquisitor’s back, almost-but-not-quite touching her, as if she might need to be supported soon.

“My lady!” Siobhan exclaimed when Lavellan reached the stairs, hurrying down the steps to greet her. “You look a right mess! Shall I draw a bath for you?”

“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful,” Lavellan breathed, the gratitude in her eyes nearly wiping out the exhaustion. “Thank you, Siobhan.”

Up in the inquisitor’s quarters, Siobhan filled a tub while Lavellan undressed. Siobhan took care to pour quietly—she had a mistress in years gone by who screamed about the splashing and the noise if she was not careful enough—and so she heard the inquisitor hissing quietly as she pulled off her shirt. Siobhan had to turn her head only slightly to see the her out of the corner of her eye, and she watched Inquisitor Lavellan flex and shake her right hand, where the anchor seemed to glow brighter, yet with less stability than usual.

“Does it hurt, my lady?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“It’s nothing to trouble yourself with,” the inquisitor murmured, setting her soiled clothes aside. “There’s enough trouble in the world already,” she said to Siobhan with a weary smile, turning to her divested of her traveling clothes. Nude, the fullness of her belly was as obvious as the shape of her hand, smoothly curving out from the profile of her body from just below the ribcage down to the nest of dark curls between her legs. She sure was coming along—Siobhan would guess six or seven months by the size of her. “I can handle this. And please, you don’t have to use a title. Guinevere is fine.” She had said as much before.

“I’d feel a bit of a—well, a bit of an ass, calling the great inquisitor by her own name,” Siobhan said. The nice thing about drawing baths for Lavellan was that she could heat it herself—no need for Siobhan to rush, trying to ensure the water was still warm by the time her mistress got into it.

The inquisitor made a sound that imitated a laugh, without much success.

“Still, I would like for you to call me Guinevere, or I will have to think of something more formal to call you.”

“As you wish then,” Siobhan said. The inquisitor reached up and began to let down her braids, letting her tight black curls spring down around her shoulders. She went to the tub that Siobhan had filled, and stirred it with her hand until steam began to curl off the surface. “I’ll let you bathe in peace then, m--. Inquisitor.” Caught between Lavellan’s _official_ title, and the name she had just bade Siobhan use, she stumbled, and settled on that to which she was more accustomed.

“Thank you, Siobhan,” she said, with a softer smile. “You’re such a great help to me.”

“It is my job,” Siobhan acknowledged.

“Still. I’m not used to…ladies’ maids or chamber maids or…but I’ve been very grateful to have you here since you joined us.” As she spoke, she stepped into the tub, and began the arduous task of lowering herself into the water.

“Here, let me help,” Siobhan said after a moment, moving back to the side of the tub to offer her support as the inquisitor eased her distended form into the bath. A wince twitched on her face, and one hand went to her belly—was the baby kicking? She had seen Seeker Pentaghast with her the other day, putting a hand to her tummy in private, to feel the little thing stretch, and it had to be big enough to give her trouble by then.

“See?” Now Lavellan’s smile seemed truly cheery. “What would I do without you?” She sank into the steamy water with a quite exhale, and her eyelids fluttered shut.

“Do you…want me to stay, m—Guinevere?” Siobhan asked, the first touch of uncertainty in her voice. “I could wash your back for you.”

“No, that’s…”

“It would be my pleasure,” Siobhan assured her. “Maybe you could show me that trick with the water!” she joked, and the inquisitor’s eyes peeked open.

“Next time you take a bath,” she said, “let me know.” She swirled her fingers in the water. “I’ll heat it up for you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Siobhan said, smiling as she got down on her knees. With some effort, Lavellan got into a sitting position, and allowed Siobhan to scrub her back.

“I should pay you back for all this,” she sighed. Siobhan let her talk, running her soapy hands over the old burns and raised scars on Lavellan’s back: the marks of her fight with Corypheus, and probably fights that had come before.

“Do you dream much, Siobhan?” When the room had been still for a few moments, with nothing but the quiet sloshing of the water, Lavellan posed her question in a dreamy voice.

“Dream? Sure, don’t everybody, but the dwarves? Don’t usually remember them, though. Do you?”

“Dreaming is…a bit different for mages,” Lavellan said.

“Are you one of them? A dream mage?”

“No, but sometimes I wish I was,” she sighed. “It seems like a useful thing.” Lavellan was looking at the fireplace, and Siobhan could feel the water growing cold, but surely it was too soon for the heat to be going! The inquisitor seemed to be in another place entirely, as if Siobhan wasn’t there at all. Did she think of spying on the Inquisition’s enemies through their dreams? Was the Inquisition even _aware_ that it _had_ an enemy?

“If you lay back now, Guinevere, I’ll wash your hair, too.” Lavellan was unresponsive so long Siobhan had begun to repeat herself when she finally obeyed. With Lavellan’s ears underwater, conversation was impossible, and Siobhan studied her face, with her eyes closed, while she scrubbed her fingers through Lavellan’s thick curls. There were shadows under her eyes—Siobhan hadn’t seen them until she was so close, with how dark Lavellan’s skin was. But they were there, contrasting with the warm undertones of the rest of her face. They were there, and something else was not, something Siobhan had wondered about since she first saw the inquisitor, something she couldn’t help but be curious about—“Why don’t you have face tattoos?” The question tumbled out of her mouth the moment Lavellan sat up, and Siobhan gaped in horror behind the inquisitor’s head. “I mean, you’re Dalish, right? I never seen a Dalish with no tattoos.”

“It’s fine.” Lavellan cut her off—not _harshly_ , but Siobhan had the distinct impression it was not something she wanted to discuss. “I…used to have it.”

“ _Used_ to?” Siobhan was only _more_ curious now, and she busied her hands squeezing water from Lavellan’s hair in hopes of keeping her on the subject. “What, you _lost_ it?” she joked.

“I got rid of it,” the inquisitor said, pulling away from Siobhan’s hands. The bath water was ice cold, but Lavellan made no move to exit, or to heat it up again. _Why?_ The question _burned_ on Siobhan’s tongue, but she bit down on it. She had been impudent enough for one day: she did not want to try the inquisitor’s temper, steady as it was. And she could not have been clearer that the discussion was _over_.

“The…water’s gone and gotten all chilly,” Siobhan said, moving to rise and reach for a towel. “Why don’t we get you out of there, my lady?”

“No, thank you.” The inquisitor leaned back in the tub, goosebumps leaping up her arms. “You can go, Siobhan.”

“Someone should help you get out—”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’d like to be alone. Thank you.” She didn’t speak with the commanding tone of a noblewoman, convinced of her _birthright_ to order those like Siobhan around, but this jumped-up Dalish was certainly more at ease giving orders than she used to be.

Out of excuses to linger, Siobhan exited, leaving Inquisitor Lavellan in her ice bath, gazing out the windows at the mountains beyond with the kind of pained wistfulness in her face Siobhan imagined had given birth to that those lullabies, one hand resting on the swell of her belly. Her troubles were a weight around her neck—something favorable for Siobhan to report to Fen’Harel, she thought with a pursed-lip smile as she trotted down the steps. His supposed rival might sweep herself off the chessboard without his having to raise a hand!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/641491835365343233/surprise-developments-recalculating) | On Pillowfort


	4. Cassandra Panics (just a little)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any medical inaccuracies in the next few chapters I will excuse with 1) I am not a medical professional and 2) My interpretation of Thedas' medical development (ex: I assume they have not yet developed the Cesarean section)

Cassandra and the inquisitor were going over their troop requisitions in western Ferelden when the pains came. It was as Cassandra speculated about sending a few dozen more men to Crestwood for the rebuilding efforts that Guinevere cried out, doubling over the table.

“Inquisitor!”

“It’s fine!” Guinevere gasped, digging her fingers into the tabletop. “It’s fine!” One hand clutched her stomach, which was impossible to completely hide then, even with Aurelie and Vivienne’s most careful tailoring, or how wide the skirts in Orlais had become the last few months. Josephine had wrung her hands privately with Leliana and Cassandra that she was already getting veiled questions and comments from some of their noble allies.

“Should I call for someone?” Cassandra asked, reaching to her hip where her sword was not, though she could hardly challenge Gwen’s pregnancy to a duel.

“No. No!” Guinevere breathed deeply. “I’m okay.” She straightened up and passed the back of her hand over her forehead. “They started this morning,” she explained to Cassandra.

“Doesn’t…doesn’t that mean the baby is coming?” Cassandra asked hesitantly, looking at Guinevere as if waiting for the appropriately hysterical reaction to this.

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t we _do something_?” Was she going crazy? Guinevere was standing there telling her the baby was coming and they were going over troop requisitions! There should be a nurse! She should be in bed! How much time was left? _Why wasn’t she more concerned?!_

“Not yet,” Guinevere said, shaking her head. “It will be hours more before the baby comes.” She grimaced and massaged her stomach with one hand.

“Oh.” Cassandra’s dark brow furrowed. That didn’t _sound_ right, but she didn’t know enough to dispute it. Growing up with Uncle Vestalus has not provided much exposure to these things (though she knew quite a lot about how to dissect and dress a corpse, for the average person). “Are you certain?”

“Of course.” Gwen smiled. “I’ve seen lots of women in the clan give birth. Labor is always longest with the first baby. We have plenty of time.”

Cassandra still thought maybe the inquisitor should be abed, but far it from her to argue on _this_ subject, particularly with such placid reassurances. Tearing her eyes from Guinevere’s face and stomach, she turned her attention back to the map, and they went on. Guinevere’s pains continued, coming more and more frequently, and with greater force, until they seemed to be every handful of minutes, and Cassandra was really hoping Josephine might suggest that Gwen go lie down.

“Inquisitor—Guinevere—this can wait,” Ambassador Montilyet said at last, lowering the parchment in her hands to the tabletop. “Perhaps it’s time to call the midwife?”

“ _Thank_ you!” Cassandra couldn’t help but input.

“It’s okay,” Guinevere insisted. “But I wouldn’t say no to a walk. Cassandra, you could show me the repairs of the eastern wall?” Cassandra glanced at Josephine, who gave the smallest of shrugs. Cassandra could see the ambassador worrying her lower lip, making her piercing bob, but she said nothing, so Cassandra and Guinevere went out to walk the battlements and review Skyhold’s most recent repairs.

“How do you know when it’s time?” Cassandra asked as Guinevere lifted her face to the slight breeze, still breathing carefully.

“When the water breaks, that means the baby is ready to come,” she replied, looking up at Cassandra.

“Ah.” Cassandra hoped the noise she made indicated this meant something to her. The times when she was keenly aware of her lack of familial experience were few, but far more frequent since Guinevere had taken her aside in the war room to explain her situation. She was the last to hear of it, but Vivienne had implored Cassandra not to read too much into that.

_“She doesn’t want you to think badly of her, dear,”_ the former First Enchanter had said. _“You know she’s always had a soft spot for you.”_

But Guinevere had trusted her with the truth, and Cassandra chose to take that to heart. The baby, though, was part of why she had put off leaving the Inquisition. She and Gwen had spoken of her rebuilding the Seekers of Truth, reforming them into what they began as: a tool for keeping the Templars in check. But she had not raised it in much seriousness since hearing of Guinevere’s condition. When the inquisitor had less need of her, then she would go.

“How long do you think we’ll be in Skyhold?” Guinevere asked.

“The Inquisition? I couldn’t possibly say. Part of that is up to you.” Guinevere nodded slowly.

“Yes, I am concerned about that…” She sighed. “I…I had thought about going home,” she confessed softly to Cassandra. “With the baby. It…feels wrong to be away from the clan. But I have too many duties here to leave it…” Her jaw tightened and she swallowed a noise of discomfort, her breath coming in labored pants, before carrying on. “Still, there must be an end to it sometime, yes?”

“When we’re done cleaning up from Corypheus, I suppose.”

“I don’t think _that_ will be anytime soon,” Guinevere said. “Won’t Ferelden and Orlais want to take over for us at some point? Manage the recovery themselves?”

“I don’t know. This is a convenient way for them to do nothing, but keep the people happy,” Cassandra said with a shrug. “It seems to me they have a good deal.” She studied Gwen’s profile. Once, she had been worried the Herald simply would not hold up under the pressure put on her, but there she was, still standing after everything Corypheus had thrown at them, which seemed like a miracle in and of itself. What seemed harder was…“You still think of him,” she guessed lowly, and Guinevere turned to look at her.

“Of course,” she said simply. “Not just because of…” She gestured to her stomach. “I…I had been so sure he would return. Even after Leliana told me she couldn’t find a whisper of him. It’s just his way, I thought. He wants to be alone; he is troubled by the loss of the orb and…” She shook her head, some distant confusion wrinkling her brow for a moment. “But when he clears his head, he will come back. Even if we are not together, he will come back to help us finish our work. But…” She bit her lower lip and her brow knit together. “I’m not sure anymore.”

Cassandra could not fill the silence that followed; her only experience in love had perished at the Conclave, and she had cut Galyan off many years earlier. In truth, Galyan would have more experience with Guinevere’s feelings than she, but she did know the ache of a missing lover.

“I think you must go forward assuming he will not,” she said at last. “Solas was always a…solitary type. It’s not impossible but…” Cassandra _wanted_ to believe with Guinevere that Solas would return, but it did seem impractical to carry on with any assumption, however small, that he would.

“I thought I could change that. I thought I _had_ changed it.” Guinevere shook her head. “Or maybe just that I was different. An exception. A foolish thought.” She gave a mirthless giggle. “I just…there are so many things I don’t understand, and now I fear I will never have answers. And neither will this one.” She rubbed her stomach again.

“I’m sorry.” Cassandra, acutely aware of her own awkwardness, tried desperately to come up with something better, but her mind was blank.

“I know. I’m almost afraid what might happen if Vivienne ever finds him before I do,” Guinevere said with a small laugh. “There might be nothing left of him.” Before Cassandra could agree, Guinevere gasped and cried and grabbed at the crenelations, her mouth dropping open. “Oh!”

“Guinevere!” This pain Guinevere could not bite down on, and when Cassandra saw the pool of liquid at her feet, it took her a moment to connect this with what Guinevere had said earlier, about waters. “The baby!”

“Oh, dear…” Guinevere looked down when she caught her breath and stepped away from the puddle. “Oh, we should get Josephine.”

“Josephine! We need a midwife! Can you walk?” Cassandra had a thought to carry Guinevere back to the castle, but the elf flapped her hands to ward the seeker off. “Is it coming right now? Can we get you upstairs? Oh, Maker’s breath!”

“It’s fine, I’m okay,” she said, but Cassandra insisted on Guinevere holding her arm as they descended from the battlements. When they got back to the hall, and Josephine saw how Guinevere clung to Cassandra’s arm, she rushed over. “Josephine. I think it’s time for that midwife,” Guinevere said. “And hurry, if you can? Cassandra might faint.” Josephine’s warm cinnamon gaze jerked up to Cassandra, who took in a sharp, offended breath.

“I’ve been perfectly calm!” Guinevere giggled, and Josephine smiled, and Cassandra grimaced, and helped Guinevere up to her room, pausing twice for more of her pains.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Cassandra assured Guinevere, more because she could not bear the silence than because Guinevere seemed to need reassurance. “Josephine brought in another healer last month who specializes in deliveries.” She started to lead Guinevere over to the bed, but Gwen shook her head.

“Let’s walk a little,” she said. “It will give me something to focus on besides the contractions.” So she hung onto Cassandra’s arm and they walked a slow, repetitive circle around her room. On the desk was a halla statuette, carved in white wood, on a dark pedestal, that made Cassandra consider both Guinevere’s absent lover, and the clan far off in Wycome.

“What happened to your halla?” she asked, when she realized one of the antlers was missing.

“Oh.” Gwen seemed to flush and glanced away. “I, uh…broke it.” Cassandra was just deciding not to ask how, when Vivienne arrived with the healer, a Rivani expat by the name of Parvana, and her assistant, a bespectacled twig of a woman with some of the fairest hair Cassandra had ever seen, and so short Cassandra wondered if she was part dwarf.

“And here we have the mother-to-be!” Parvana exclaimed when she saw Gwen. “Are you ready, inquisitor?” Guinevere took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and nodded.

“Yes, I’m ready.”

***

Vivienne was stationed at the door to the stairs leading to the inquisitor’s chambers when that beady-eyed maid turned up, her rusty hair sprinkled with dust and her boots likewise dirty. She rushed the door, but Vivienne moved to block it.

“My Lady Inquisitor’s up there!” Siobhan exclaimed. “I’ve got to be with her!”

“No, you do not,” Vivienne said. Guinevere trusted her maid, but Vivienne had never extended such magnanimity—there was something about the elf that put her teeth on edge. There was a cunning air about her, a slyness to her movements, an oiliness to the way she spoke to Guinevere. To allow her into the inquisitor’s chambers at one of her most vulnerable moments was not something Vivienne could countenance, short of a request from Guinevere herself. “The healers have specifically requested the birthing room not be overcrowded.”

“She needs me!” Siobhan argued.

“She needs a healer,” Vivienne said. “Which she has. You can busy yourself elsewhere, I’m sure.”

“A woman needs someone with her, you should know that,” the maid said, a slight wrinkle in her nose. Vivienne did not have to guess at what thoughts were in her head. _Ice Queen_ was usually not a reference to Vivienne’s talent for ice-based spells.

“Which is why Cassandra is with her now, at her request,” Vivienne replied. Cassandra had more or less ended up pressed into the position by virtue of having been with Guinevere when she went into labor, but telling the maid Guinevere had had the chance to ask for her, and had not done so was more likely to discourage her from pressing this.

“I can help,” the maid insisted.

“If you are needed, we will send for you.”

The maid glared, her mouth twisting up, and Vivienne stared her down, daring her to speak whatever biting remarks were clawing at her teeth. Smart woman—she choked them down, turned on her heel, and strode off.

Cassandra emerged a few minutes later, while Vivienne was contemplating what it was this maid thought she was going to get out of her relationship with Guinevere.

“How is she?” she asked at once.

“Holding up,” Cassandra said. “I can’t believe six hours of this is normal.” Vivienne shrugged.

“I’ve heard it can last all day,” she said. “But I would take Parvana’s word on this.” While pregnancies did happen in the Circle, they were hushed up affairs, and Vivienne had never been present at the birthing bed for one. Nicoline had said that Laurent had been “difficult,” but she hadn’t expanded; Vivienne wished now that she’d asked.

“All day! How is she supposed to manage this all day?”

“Women do,” Vivienne said. “Why don’t you take a rest, dear? I’ll go and keep her company for a while.”

“I don’t like this helpless feeling,” Cassandra said. “There’s nothing we can _do_ for her.”

“You were letting her hold your hand, weren’t you?” Cassandra nodded and flexed her right hand, as if remembering the strain Guinevere had put on it. “Well there you have it, seeker. That is what you can do for her that the healers can’t. The comfort of a trusted companion will always mean more than that of a stranger. And with her so far from her clan now…I imagine it is of particular importance to her that we are there.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Cassandra admitted with a thoughtful look.

Vivienne paused as she turned towards the door, and cast a last glance over the hall before adding in a lower voice, “Don’t let that chamber maid in. She has other tasks with which to worry herself.” Cassandra made some noise of query, but Vivienne said nothing more before mounting the steps to the Inquisitor’s chambers to offer what strength she could.

***

The knock at the door came on the tail end of a weary moan from Guinevere, and Vivienne disentangled her fingers from the inquisitor’s to go investigate. Ambassador Montilyet lingered at the entrance to the stairwell, clutching her clipboard and worrying a chapped lower lip.

“Madame de Fer,” she said. “Is there any update?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Vivienne said, stifling a yawn.

“It’s been twelve hours,” Josephine said, as if Vivienne might not be aware of how long this had been going on, as if she had not been at Guinevere’s bedside much of the time, listening to her howl as the birthing pains wracked her, watching her energy deplete hour by hour like sand through an hourglass.

“Indeed it has.”

“What does Mistress Parvana say?”

“The baby will come when it is ready,” Vivienne reported dutifully. “There is nothing we can do but wait, dear.” As much sympathy as Vivienne had for Guinevere, watching the process had dispelled any doubts that may have lingered somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind that she might have ever wanted to produce a child of her own. Bastien had asked her only once about it (if she’d ever thought of it, that is), and she had laughed so uproariously he had thought she was making fun of him.

“Can you imagine? Me, a mother?” she had exclaimed, shaking her head (this was before Jean-Phillippe, before she had mentored an apprentice of her own), before pointing out that mages were generally _discouraged_ from reproduction. Now she thought it didn’t matter much what her motherly qualities might be or not be—she did not ever want to lie like that at a mercy of some other being, whether it was a demon or her own child.

“Very well,” Josephine said, because she could say nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, you didn't think birthing the Dread Wolf's child would be _easy_ , did you? 
> 
> And yes, that _was_ a reference to BBC's _Call the Midwife_ up there.
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/641854828357746688/surprise-developments-recalculating) | On Pillowfort


	5. A Damn Stubborn Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mainly I broke this and the last chapter apart to keep the lengths more consistent

As Siobhan helped the laundress fold the clothes taken down from the lines that streamed like banners around their corner of the courtyard, she cursed herself and that thrice-damned Orlesian enchantress. Of all the times!

She had off time (Lavellan was fairly generous with this), so she had been chatting up some of Skyhold’s other residents, thinking to gather some intelligence this way. She’d hoped to talk with the Chargers’ lieutenant, who was such a fixture at the Herald’s Rest she was sure he would have _something_ to tell her, but the Chargers were out on a job. Realizing those whom the inquisitor counted as particular friends were dwindling by the day, she instead turned her focus to the servants, plying them with easy conversation and freckled smiles, hoping to wring something _useful_ out of their otherwise dull yammering.

Once, she thought as she made her way through Skyhold’s tangled halls, she would have engaged in such conversation earnestly. Sharing stories of cranky masters, burned skirts, over-salted meals…those bits and bobs had made up her days, and she had given them out as often as she had sympathized with her fellows on their own trials and tribulations. Now, listening to them made her want to claw the points off her ears. It was all so _pedantic_ and _irrelevant!_ Fen’Harel was come again, didn’t they know? He was going to raise the elves and make the world anew, and she was meant to care that someone had used the wrong polish on Lord Shem’s shoes?

When she couldn’t take anymore meaningless babble from the ignorant rabble, she decided to try to get into Skyhold’s prison. It was locked, unsurprisingly, and Siobhan’s efforts in vain. Truthfully, she had never _really_ learned to lockpick—only gotten lucky a couple times. Seeking another way in—surely, in this labyrinthine castle, there was another door—took up most of the rest of her day. No matter how steadily a hall progressed in the right direction, it invariably snapped aside at the last second, denying her entry, until Siobhan was incoherent with rage and convinced that there was in fact, only one door into the dungeon.

All that time wasted, and so when she finally made it to the inquisitor, she had been surrounded by others already, and Siobhan was shut out. After all she had done tracking this progress, and now, to not be there at the hour of the birth! It made her blood boil: she wanted to be able to tell Fen’Harel that she had been _there_ , that she _knew_ what had happened, not that she had heard it second-hand from some midwife!

Throughout the day she passed by the entrance to the inquisitor’s quarters as often as she could, but there was always either Madame Vivienne or Seeker Pentaghast at the door. When they passed the fourteenth hour, the wheels of Siobhan’s mind began to turn. She’d heard of labors this long, especially for the first child, but it was already a long one. A few more hours and she would be in dangerous territory, and Siobhan knew that little good came from prolonged labors (she had no children of her own, but living all pressed together in the alienage, it was impossible not to be intimately familiar with the business of one’s neighbors, and children were always being born in the alienage).

When she was out of tasks for her job, she sat down on the steps to the throne, facing the inquisitor’s door, and waited. Every several hours, Madame de Fer and Seeker Pentaghast would confer and murmur to each other, and swap places. Once or twice Ambassador Montilyet appeared to talk with one or the other of them, and walked away chewing her lip.

Seventeen hours crept by them, and Seeker Pentaghast departed to go do whatever the seeker did when she wasn’t hitting things or planning with Inquisitor Lavellan. Siobhan moved to the door the second the seeker was out of eyeshot, pressing her ear to the wood. There was no sound, but that didn’t mean there was no activity—by now, Siobhan thought, the inquisitor was most likely too tired to keep screaming. She was debating whether to abandon post or try to sneak into the stairwell when another sound caught her ear—the sharp clack of heels on stone, and then, the voice of Madame de Fer.

“I am _concerned_ with the way this is progressing.”

“I understand, madame, but there is nothing we can do.” That had to be Parvana, the healer. There was a cut of a Rivaini accent in her words.

“In a few more hours, it will have been an entire day. Does that not concern you?” Vivienne’s voice was level, but Siobhan did not fancy being in Parvana’s shoes at that moment.

“It does. This has been a particularly long labor, which can happen.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“We’ve tried everything we can, madame. We could give her some more of the teas, or have her do a few more round around the room—”

“She can barely _walk!_ ” Madame Vivienne’s voice was flint at once, sparking on the cusp of a wildfire. “At this rate, I don’t see how she will be able to produce the child when it _is_ ready!”

“We will get her through this,” Parvana replied. “I have seen it happen before.” So had Siobhan—once, the babe was a stillborn, and the other, the mother lingered a few days, and then expired. They never had managed to stop her bleeding. “I know this is a frustrating time…” Parvana’s voice grew so soft Siobhan struggled to hear. “…there for her is more important than you might imagine.”

There was silence in the stairwell, and then: “It’s a damn stubborn thing, isn’t it?” The fight had gone out of Madame Vivienne’s voice.

“This is a very stubborn one,” Parvana agreed. “But we will do our best to ensure it is delivered safe and healthy.”

***

“Vivienne.” Guinevere’s voice croaked out from among the pillows, and Vivienne turned her wandering gaze back to her ailing friend. Guinevere intertwined her fingers with Vivienne’s, and held Vivienne’s hand to her damp breast, fighting what seemed to be a losing battle to keep her eyes open. Loose strands of hair were stuck to her face and neck, no matter how many times Vivienne brushed them away, and she could see the shadows deepening under Guinevere’s bloodshot eyes.

“Yes, my dear, what is it?” She leaned closer, and the young elf paused to gather her strength.

“I’m so tired.”

“I know, dear, I know.” Vivienne squeezed her hand. “But you can do this. You’ve done more impossible things before.” The light that streamed through the chamber windows felt terribly at odds with how exhausted everyone in the room was. Hours ago, Parvana had remarked on how beautiful the sunrise was from the Inquisitor’s bedroom, and Guinevere murmured some generic reply, though Vivienne was certain she had seen tears in her eyes.

“I find I have a great deal more respect for my mother,” she said with a feeble exhale that imitated a laugh.

“I am beginning to agree on that.” Vivienne had not thought of her own mother in years, and then, only in passing, but she did wonder now: had it been this hard, for her? Had she lain in bed for hours, cursing the child causing her so much pain? Had she cursed again when she realized what she had birthed, years later?

“Can you do me a favor?” Guinevere rasped.

“If it can be done, I will do it.”

“I need help. Please…there is dragonthorn in the pantry. Would you burn some of it? Tell Mythal…I need her.” For a moment, Vivienne wracked her brain trying to remember what Mythal was the goddess of—motherhood? Protection? Revenge? Then she snapped out of it—it didn’t _matter_ ; this was something she could _do_. “And…Ghilan’nain…” Guinevere’s free hand touched her chin, where she’d once born the curling, intricate lines of her vallaslin.

“It will be done,” she promised, peeling her hand away from Guinevere’s sticky grip.

“Thank you, _lethallan_.”

Not pausing to find a servant, she strode down to the kitchen herself, giving the cooks a near heart attack, and retrieved the dragonthorn. Unwilling to leave Guinevere too long, she took it back upstairs and ignited it on the balcony, where the smoke would not bother the laboring mother. Troublingly close to the walls of the fortress, a chorus of wolves keened a melancholy song.

 _Maker, or Mythal, or whatever gods are out there…_ she thought. _Keep her safe. Don’t let her die this way._

***

Siobhan was falling asleep on the stairs when Madame Vivienne came for her.

“You.” She snapped her eyes open to see the mage gesturing at her. “We need more hands. If you want to help, now is your hour.” Siobhan was on her feet at once, trotting up behind Madame Vivienne, taking the stairs like she was racing her shadow.

The atmosphere in the inquisitor’s room was grim and pretending not to be, and even the late pinkish glow behind the mountains, remnant of the fading sun, could not alleviate the feeling. The noises coming from the bed were those of a woman too exhausted to think, let alone wail to sufficiently express her pain. Something twisted in Siobhan’s stomach; she did not like spending time at such bedsides. Death seemed to hang a specter over the expectant mother’s bed, as if there were a game of tug-of-war going on in the room. But this was no time for squeamishness—she brushed off her unease, and took the towels Madame Vivienne handed her, approaching the bed to help with placing them.

“Parvana wants you on your side now, dear,” Vivienne coaxed the Inquisitor, taking her place at the edge of the vast bed, where the Inquisitor grasped her hand. “Kiki and I are going to help you.”

“Okay.” The inquisitor’s bedsheets were drenched in sweat, and her voice came feeble and compliant, too wrung out to argue. Madame Vivienne, Siobhan, and the assistant helped turn her, while Parvana spread her legs to examine her. Kiki then sent Siobhan for the bucket of water by the fireplace, which she set beside Parvana.

“Those damn wolves…” Siobhan heard the midwife mutter to herself, and Siobhan lifted her head to the balcony doors, through which she could catch the tail end of a choral howl. Odd—they weren’t usually so close to the castle walls.

“It’s coming!” Parvana’s shout seemed to rouse everyone in the room, as if they had hitherto been preparing for something they didn’t believe was actually going to happen.

“Can you manage?” Vivienne asked her, and Parvana gave a brisk nod.

“With Kiki’s help, yes, we should be able to get baby presenting correctly. I think we’ll manage with just the two of us.” _Is it pointing the wrong way?_ Siobhan wondered. If it was, no wonder she had been in labor so long—and she wasn’t in the clear yet.

“Maid.” Madame Vivienne was looking at Siobhan again. “Find Seeker Pentaghast, if you can, and Ambassador Montilyet, if she’s still awake. Tell them it’s coming.”

“But I—”

“Go, or I’ll toss you off the balcony myself!” Siobhan bit her tongue and ran, hearing the first of Inquisitor Lavellan’s renewed screaming as the baby started to crown at last. It echoed down through the stairwell, and Siobhan remembered as a child, racing to get the neighborhood midwife when some woman in her building began her birthing. Hopefully this one turned out as well as most of those, Siobhan thought. If the baby was stillborn, the inquisitor would go right back to the way things were, with the addition of her personal grief. The presence of a living child would force her to change her methods, which would destabilize her in the way Fen’Harel needed.

“Mythal, keep that child well,” Siobhan muttered as she took the steps two at a time.

***

The inquisitor’s chamber maid came to her in the early hours of the morning, shaking her awake to tell her the baby was on its way. Torn between relief that it was almost done, and shock that it had not already come, Cassandra opted to dress and go up immediately—she didn’t see how she’d be sleeping much after that. The maid darted off on some other task, and Cassandra hurried up to the inquisitor’s chambers.

It was not yet over when Cassandra arrived. So much pain, she marveled as Guinevere convulsed on the bed, forcing herself to adhere to Parvana’s cries of “Push just a bit more!” So much pain for such a small thing, for when the baby finally slipped free, it was so _little_. It hardly seemed real (was it _meant_ to be so small?). Guinevere collapsed against the pillows, and Cassandra had a sudden thought of her mother, screaming in that same way, with her father shouting for the driver to make the carriage go _faster_. An unceremonious start in the world, but she’d recovered.

“Now it’s just the afterbirth,” Kiki reminded her, and Guinevere made a noise between a moan and a cry, tilting her head back into the pillows. Beads of sweat slid down her slick throat and pooled at her collarbone.

“It’s almost over,” Vivienne said. Kiki rose to take the baby from Parvana and clean it while Parvana oversaw the aftermath. Cassandra took her place at Gwen’s left side, sitting on the bed and taking her hand to give it a brief squeeze.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked quietly. Gwen gave a feeble nod and rubbed Cassandra’s fingers lightly.

“It’s a girl!” Kiki announced cheerfully as she wiped the baby clean. When all was cared for, she brought the little bundle over. Guinevere finally let go of her friends and reached for the baby, immediately loosening the swaddle so she could lay the babe against her breast, skin to skin. The child seemed to be all her mother, with her coloring just a few shades lighter than Gwen’s, and the same curly black hair cropping up on her head. The only thing hinting at her parentage was the shape of her ears and the bridge of her nose, the telling signs her father had also been an elf.

“Hello, baby,” Gwen breathed. “You took your time.”

***

“She’s calling it _Nimue_ ,” Siobhan said. For a moment, Fen’Harel just blinked at her, and so she clarified: “The baby. It’s a girl.” She’d arrived just at the end of the birth, so it wasn’t a lie when she said she had been there, even if most of what she’d seen was the _forty minutes_ it took for the afterbirth to come.

“The baby? It’s been born?”

“A few days back, yeah.” Fen’Harel took a deep breath and began pacing about the table, but it was not his usual slow, thoughtful movement: it was quicker, jerkier, and lacked his customary grace. His eyes seemed incapable of focusing on any one thing and he looked over at Siobhan with an intensity she could not read, but which she half-feared might sear her to ash if he kept up with it.

“And how is it? And the inquisitor?”

“Still under watch, but they seem okay enough. It was some birthing though; I’ve never seen a woman go that long in labor. Too tired to even howl by the end. Took a full day! I was starting to think neither of them was going to come out of it.” She almost mentioned about the positioning, then figured a man—a god—wouldn’t much care whether the baby had been pointing the wrong way, or why and how it gave the inquisitor so much trouble.

Fen’Harel turned to the window, as he often did when Siobhan reported, and his voice was unusually low when he spoke again.

“It was a great pain for her, then?”

“Judging by the yelling.” Siobhan suppressed a snort in the presence of Fen’Harel. “All birthing women are in pain, my lord. This one just went on especially long. More dangerous for mother and baby that way. Usually means something’s gone wrong.”

“I have requested that you not address me that way. How is her health now?”

“Sincerest apologies. She’s mighty tuckered out still, and working out how to break this baby to the rest of the Inquisition. Everybody and their mother knows something’s up now; she’s been in her room most of the time since. Sleeps a lot. Hasn’t let that baby out of her sight, either.”

“And the child?”

“Quiet, for a newborn,” Siobhan said, after a pause to consider how best to describe the new child. “Probably tuckered out too; don’t imagine such a welcome to the world was easy on her either! She should rosy up in a few weeks.”

Fen’Harel nodded, flexing the fingers of the hands behind his back, and seemed to mull over Siobhan’s report. There was a restlessness in him that day, as if his spirit refused to still.

“You know what’s odd?” she volunteered. “She hasn’t got vallaslin. The inquisitor. But she’s Dalish, clan Lavellan. I never met a Dalish what hasn’t got vallaslin. I asked her about, and you know what she said? She got rid of it! How—”

“That is of no concern to us.” Fen’Harel’s voice was as harsh as he had ever addressed Siobhan, and she silenced immediately, chastising herself for becoming too familiar with him. Lowering her gaze, she waited for direction, but the Dread Wolf offered her nothing more. He paced the room and Siobhan watched the movement of his feet.

“Has she given any indication what she plans to do with this child?” he snapped at last, though they had talked before about her keeping it with the Inquisition.

“Raise it alongside her duties I believe, my—ser. She hasn’t parted with it once yet, I can’t imagine her taking much to having it rehomed someplace else.” If anything, the Dread Wolf’s pacing became more agitated.

“And still you know nothing of the father?”

“No.” She bit back another honorific. “She never gives him a name, for all she’s aching.”

“Aching?”

“She sings these old elven lullabies to herself, when she thinks she’s alone. All lost loves and broken hearts and _come back to me on the wind_ and all that. I think she thinks this fellow might still come back.” Poor sod—counting on some errant man to come back now that she’d had a baby? Fat chance! No man was ever so loyal. “And there’s this halla statute on her desk—I think he must have given it to her—she touches it a lot. Threw it at the wall once too, though. Busted off one of the antlers. We never did find it. Seems a fool thing to me. No man’s walked out on a woman ever came back, least not to stay. Lucky she’s got so many friends. Still, seems like whoever busted up her heart did us a favor. Makes it harder to think clear, that way. You make more mistakes, get clumsy, thinking too much about your own hurt.”

When she was done, the only sound in the room was Fen’Harel’s breathing, almost like panting.

“Thank you, Siobhan,” he said tightly, sweeping past her and throwing the door open. Without waiting for her to go, he strode into the hall, and when Siobhan peeked out the door, a massive black wolf was sprinting down the stone corridor and vanishing down the stairs.

With Fen’Harel out of the room, Siobhan found she couldn’t resist a look at the papers on his side of the table. What she found was sheaves of notes in a script she didn’t recognize—ancient Elvish, perhaps? Scattered on several of the pages were loosely-drawn images of a slender halla, half-hidden among the trees, or standing alert at the peak of a hill, or basking in the sun. Over one, a great dark shadow was thrown, dwarfing the graceful creature, devouring it with darkness as it passed blissfully ignorant through the woods. Along the margins, the same geometric patterns she recognized from the murals around headquarters.

“Never would have guessed the Dread Wolf for a doodler,” she remarked to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah in present day Gwen would've definitely gotten a C-section before things went this far, because there is such a high chance of injury or death to the mother or baby with such a long labor, but I'm guessing the procedure is not widely used in Thedas at this time (outside of instances where the mother is dead or dying and it may still be possible to save the child), based on what we've seen of their technological and medical development
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/642135861022064640/surprise-developments-recalculating) | On Pillowfort


	6. Fen'Harel Tells the Truth (sort of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **HEY EVERYONE** I'm a dummy, and last update I cut the chapter too early--so if you read it on Thursday or Friday, I've since updated it with an additional section, which, obviously, I would advise reading before proceeding with this chapter.
> 
> Also, we're almost at the end!

“Nimue! Nimue!” She never should have listened to Leliana, to leave Nimue behind at Skyhold—! Her daughter’s absence had been carving a hole in Guinevere’s chest since that terrible thought had first whispered into the dark of her mind: _Solas is Fen’Harel_. _Solas is the Dread Wolf._ Her hand burned for her daughter’s soft, small body in her grip, and her urgency had grown only more powerful with every word out of Solas’ mouth.

“Nimue!” She didn’t care if she was making a scene; she didn’t care what the rest of the Inquisition thought. She was sprinting up the steps, shoving past anyone who did not get out of her way, crashing into the walls in the stairwell as she swung around the turns. “Nimue!” The crib in her room was empty, and Guinevere almost screamed.

 _What have you done with her!_ As she raced back down the stairs, she plowed into Cassandra, who had accompanied her back to Skyhold, on a brief detour from her work reforming the Seekers of Truth, after getting the truth of Solas’ identity and his plan from Gwen. Fortunately for Cassandra, there was no chance of Guinevere unbalancing her.

“She’s gone! Nimue!”

“We’ll find her,” Cassandra assured her at once, looking down into Gwen’s panicked eyes. “She can’t be far, and I don’t think Solas would hurt her.” The _yet_ was buried in Cassandra’s voice.

“Are you looking for the baby?” Both women snapped their attention to a foot soldier who had approached their commotion.

“Where is she?” Guinevere looked like she might seize the man and Cassandra tensed to intervene.

“Out in the garden with Scout Harding, last I saw.” Guinevere, who had never considered, in her alarm, a more innocuous possibility for Nimue’s absence, looked up at Cassandra again, then took off in that direction, flying out into the courtyard garden.

“Nimue!”

“Inquisitor!” The genial Harding waved from a checkered blanked laid out on the ground, and ripping up blades of grass at the edge of the blanket was Nimue.

“Mamae!” When she saw her mother bursting through the foliage like a crazed horse loosed on an unsuspecting garden, her plump face split into a smile, and she waved her fat hands. “Mamae is home!” Guinevere hit the grass on her knees and pulled the puzzled child into her arm, squeezing Nimue against her chest until she squirmed and whined in protest.

Harding cast a bewildered look at Cassandra, bringing up the rear, as Guinevere nearly wept over her daughter’s curly black head.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble; I only thought she might like a bit of fresh air, and we didn’t know when you’d be back…”

“It’s not you,” Cassandra said. “The Exalted Council was…well, we’ll discuss it later.” Nimue protested again, louder, and Guinevere at last loosened her grip, holding the child on her knees so she could see her face. “Things are not good.” Cassandra’s grim tone would have conveyed that even without the blunt admission, but Guinevere didn’t tear her eyes from Nimue to see how Harding was responding.

“She’s been alright since we’ve been gone?” she asked Harding. Still a little wide-eyed over the possibility she had caused upset with the Inquisitor’s child, and the foreboding nature of Cassandra’s commentary, Harding nodded.

“Nothing unusual here,” she said. “Ambassador Montilyet’s been keeping a good eye on her.” They were hardly short of helping hands—once it was out that the Inquisitor had a baby, plenty in the Inquisition were ready to join in raising the girl, and little Nimue was never without a lap to sit on, a toy to bite, or a song to put her to sleep.

“Thank you, Lace.” Guinevere rose to her feet, cradling the child in her arm, which was when Harding seemed to realize she was now short of a hand.

“By the Stone! What happened to your—”

“That’s for the discussion later,” Cassandra cut in. Harding’s eyes were wider than ever when Guinevere took Nimue off. She didn’t waste time trying to get back to her own room; she was desperate just for a private location _anywhere_ and she found herself in a guest room that had not yet been renovated in which to have her little meltdown. 

“Oh, Nimue!” She collapsed on the floor, her back against the wall, holding Nimue in her good arm, pressing her lips again and again to the top of her daughter’s head. “Oh, gods, _lethallan_. I was so afraid…” She took deep breaths and let Nimue pull at her ears and her clothes, but insistently returned the child to her lap every time Nimue tried to crawl away. Eventually, she got her frenzy under control, and relaxed enough to study Nimue.

The girl was, of course, no different than when she had left. But now Guinevere knew what ran in her blood; she knew what Nimue _was_. She had born a child by Fen’Harel. It was like something out of myth or story.

Bored of her mother’s hysteria, Nimue found a seat on the floor and entertained herself with a bit of rock or rubble, bashing it against the stone floor, greatly pleased with the resultant racket.

There was never a moment Guinevere had thought her anything other than a baby; she could have been any elven child. But what myth ran in her veins? What power? What destiny?

Solas knew her name.

The moment it passed his lips Guinevere thought she might expire on the spot. What was she afraid of, though? That Solas would hurt Nimue? Did she really believe that? _Some part of you does_ , she thought. _Or you wouldn’t be afraid._ Being a mother, she had found, made her afraid of all kinds of things she had never thought about in the past. Letting her child loose into the world felt like watching a group of people play catch with a treasured family heirloom.

He was willing to destroy Thedas to restore the Elvhen, though…what was one little life, even if it was his child’s? And he knew Gwen could not lower her staff against him; she could not allow him to bring such ruin on the world, even if she understood why he wanted to do it. To succeed, he had to remove her from his chessboard.

_But you lied to me. I loved you._

Why Solas had lied was obvious, and no amount of pain she felt over his lies convinced her it had been totally unreasonable, from his perspective. _But you let me love you_ , she thought bitterly. The hours they spent in discussion about elven art, language, culture; the walks before camp had woken, in the early hours of the morning when they seemed the only ones alive in the world; the way he took her hands when he showed her a casting technique; the _dreaming_ …With every breath he had lied, and he had known what that lie would come to, and he let her fall anyway (and worse, let her think she would be caught).

_I would not lay with you under false pretenses._

_But you_ did _!_ she wanted to scream. The night in the Emerald Graves: their tender embrace, and the swath of stars over the clearing like a million little wishes, and the rustle of the wind in the leaves like the whole world breathing with them, and the way he had _looked_ at her, as if she held the moon in her arms!—all these things that had formed such a sweet memory had turned to ash in Guinevere’s mouth. When she had laid beside him in the grass, and told him of all the things they would do when the Inquisition was done, had it pained him at all? What was it he’d said?

 _It would please me to go with you_. Something like that. Not a lie, but a deceit, he would say. Necessary. He couldn’t tell her the truth. But he let her go on, believing they had a future together.

 _Fen’Harel ma ghilana._ The Trickster had led her down this path, and she had been too foolish to see it, for all the keeper’s teachings. Gods…what would she tell the clan about this, about Solas? About the Veil? The gods? Her head began to ache, and she returned a simpler question: that of who had told Solas about Nimue.

 _Agents of Fen’Harel have penetrated the Inquisition_.

Rising to her feet, Guinevere grabbed Nimue and threw open the door. She strode out to the garden, where Harding was folding up the blanket and gathering her books.

“Where is Siobhan?” she demanded without preamble.

***

Solas had dismissed Siobhan earlier that day, telling Finian to find a new assignment for her. Guinevere had fired her less than an hour after returning to Skyhold, and Siobhan was positively incensed (and convinced Vivienne had something to do with it, despite having long departed for Val Royeaux and the College of Magi), but Solas did not have the energy to manage her upset. It was just as well—he didn’t think he could take any more of questioning her about Gwen and Nimue, pretending he had some strategic interest in her answers, and corralling his reactions appropriately. The only other thing she could report was that the Inquisition was doing a great purge of its servants, and vastly shrinking its overall force, but that it was not disbanding, as far she could tell.

Guinevere was retooling for a new purpose.

_Solas…var lath vir suledin!_

Her words, and her agonized wails as the anchor burned through her flesh echoed relentlessly in his mind, plaguing him when he tried to sleep and stealing his focus during his waking hours. Guinevere was convinced he could be “saved.” It would have hurt less for her to curse and condemn him as the wicked, misanthropic liar Dalish mythology always told her he would be.

He should not have mentioned Nimue. It told her he knew about the girl’s existence (but would Gwen not have determined that on her own?), and he had seen the panic flare in her eyes with that knowledge. Did she think he would harm the babe?

If he had thought time would dull his recollection of the softness of her eyes, the scent of her hair, the touch of her calloused palms, he was sorely disappointed. That night still sprang to mind as vividly as if it had been yesterday; and the sound of Gwen’s breath, and the warmth of her cheek, and the pulse of her blood at her throat—and the way she _looked_ at him, as if he were not Fen’Harel, only Solas: Solas, whom she _loved_ ; Solas, whom she _trusted_ ; Solas, whom she defended with word and with spell. Solas, for whom she had hinted that she would leave her clan, surrender her position as first of the keeper, and follow him on whatever journeys he took, if he wished it.

Solas, who had walked away from her.

He should not have taken that night. He hadn’t meant to—it had been greedy, and selfish, and she deserved better than that, but now she bore the cost of his impulsive desire. Desire for a life that was not—could never be—his. There had been a moment, looking up at the stars behind her head, and the way they seemed to reflect in her eyes, when he thought _damn the Evanuris_. _Damn the Elvhen_. Why should he give her up, give this up, to fight another war for someone else? It was a thought he clung to as long as he could, knowing it would never stay, and it faded cold as he rested his head on Guinevere’s breast and felt the repetitive caress of her fingers on the tip of his ear, knowing he was still bound to his task.

Trying to get a grip on his thoughts, Solas shut his eyes, but the memory of hearing Guinevere’s voice for the first time in two years swept over him and wrenched the arrow that had been lodged in his heart since he walked away from her _bare-faced, embarrassed, and she doesn't know. She thinks it's because of her._ When he had turned, when he had seen her, he knew all his memories, all his dreams, were shadows dancing on a cave wall. The sight of her flooded him, feverish, and he felt on the precipice of trading the future of the Elvhen for her to look at him with the tenderness and affection she’d once had, to feel her presence in easy peace with his own, to talk, of nothing, and everything. There was no time for that, of course (this is what he was trading, this is the price he paid for their future, and what was sacrifice worth, if there was no blood price?), but he had still looked, looked to see if—

Had he not been disappointed that Nimue was not with her?

It was good that she was not. The battlefield was no place for a child of such tender years, and it was good that Solas did not see her. She was not his; he had no part of her. It was Guinevere who had born her, birthed her, raised her—the girl was entirely hers. He should not ever begin to feel that he was a part of her.

More than that, Nimue was a weakness. It was common knowledge in Thedas then that Lavellan had a baby, conceived during her tenure as inquisitor. If the true parentage of Nimue became known, he did not like to think at what risk that might put the baby. Nor did he consider it impossible some enemy of his own might try to use her against him. It was best, then, that he stay focused, and keep away from Nimue (Still, she had been born of _love_ , and he wondered if that would make a difference someday, that whatever the failings of her parents—her _father_ —she had been conceived in such tenderness and purity of affection).

But Guinevere…

Once, they had walked in dreams together. He had held her hand through elven ruins; they had danced in resplendent balls long since concluded; they had sat on grassy hilltops and watched ancient civilizations carry on. Sometimes, when they passed some place of significance, Gwen would stretch up to murmur in his ear: _Can we dream here?_

Now she slept alone, and when Siobhan mentioned Gwen’s remark about wishing to be somniari, it jerked on the arrow in his breast. He knew what she thought—if she was a somniari, she could find him, at least in dreams.

In their sleep, perhaps there was a world where he did not have to strike her down to bring back the Elvhen, or where he could put love before honor, before duty.

When he left the Inquisition, he had allowed himself a period to wallow, and then tried to excise Guinevere of Clan Lavellan from his mind. Even Solas would admit this project had not gone _smoothly_ , but when Siobhan brought him the first news about the baby, it had simply fallen to pieces. Now that he had seen her again, it felt like someone had pulled the arrow backwards out of his chest, and trying to stop thinking of her was like trying to stop the wound bleeding.

Haunting her dreams was not fair, and it was not wise, but he thought if he allowed himself this indulgence, he could stay sane in his waking hours. To just catch a glimpse of her while she slept, not to speak to her, or investigate the child, just to see her from afar…

It was like a starving man trying to ration an influx of food.

He was grateful for one thing: Guinevere was _not_ a somniari, and could not see into his dreams the way he could walk in hers. He did not want her to see his fears, nor the palace on the mountainside, magic-made of wood and gold where the sun was perpetually at its first breaking or its falling, and Guinevere lived with Nimue in her arms, and she smiled at him, and passed Nimue to him, and the baby cooed and laid easily against his chest.

No one questioned why wolves howled, and this served him, but somewhere, somehow, he wished that Guinevere would hear, and know his howl from the rest, and know that he cried for her, and now for Nimue, and what might have been theirs, in another world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You finally got that sweet sweet Solas POV section. I couldn't _not_ have one!
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/642480504748359680/surprise-developments-recalculating) | On Pillowfort


	7. Lavellan Goes Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, a little epilogue-type bit to wrap things up! Thanks for going on the journey with me folks, it was a fun ride.

Guinevere was meant to be checking in with Quartermaster Morris, but she could not yet tear herself away from Keeper Deshanna’s latest letter. Reading it put a vision in her mind of the keeper’s disappointed, disapproving look. She had told the keeper about Solas before, and about the baby, so it seemed well enough now to tell her the truth. She would understand what it meant far more than any of the Inquisition’s human advisors, much as Guinevere treasured their support. They were still reeling over the revelation that the elven gods were _real_ , let alone mages of incredible power, put to slumber by their Solas’ own hand, let alone that he intended to tear down the Veil and wake them.

But to admit to her keeper—as that keeper’s chosen first—that the father of her child was He Who Roams Beyond was no easy thing. She must have written and re-written the letter fifteen times, while Nimue toddled around the fur rug in front of the desk, occasionally shrieking as if to remind herself that she could still make noise. Sometimes, she would look up at Gwen and announce what she was playing with (“Horse! Dog! Block!”), or simply babble in that squeaky little voice, mimicking things she had heard others say. Guinevere had no idea where she kept getting the toys; every time she picked the girl up she had some toy Gwen had never seen before (which was just as well, since they were perpetually being left all over Skyhold, and tended to vanish as quickly as they’d appeared).

Only her determination to tell her keeper the truth of it all had kept her writing. She had wanted to tell Deshanna in person, but she was too afraid some other news might reach her first, and she wanted to be sure _she_ was the one to break it. But she _would_ go to Wycome with Nimue, to talk to the clan face-to-face.

It wasn’t until she got the keeper’s letter back that she understood how desperate she was for her reassurance. The disapproval and suppressed horror in the letter she got made her eyes burn, and it was difficult to swallow. But what else could she have expected? By her doing, a child of the Lord of Tricksters now roamed Thedas. Nothing good she had ever written Deshanna about Solas mattered now—he was the Dread Wolf, and that wiped away all the rest (not that convincing Deshanna he wasn’t what legend said would have been worth the time and ink, given that she would be arriving to tell her about his plan to destroy the Veil and decimate all life in Thedas).

The keeper did not refuse her to come and see them, but she warned Guinevere to be cautious with Nimue, and for the time being, swore herself to secrecy about the girl’s parentage. That was fair—it should not be on her to break this news to everyone else.

She wasn’t wrong about Nimue’s safety either—there was a fear that beat in Guinevere’s chest at all hours of the day now, whispering in her veins and making it so there were times she could barely _breathe_ until she set eyes on the child: the fear that Solas’ followers would find out about Nimue. _He_ might be above harming Nimue directly, or using her as part of his plan, but what of those who called Fen’Harel their lord and commander? How could they not see a clear, bright target on Nimue’s head? The idea of Nimue at their mercy kept her awake far too many hours of the night. If nothing more sophisticated, they would all know the easiest way to render Guinevere helpless was to have Nimue in their grasp—and while Solas might not actively harm her, he would know Guinevere could not take even the slightest chance that he _could_.

Gwen had not yet made up her mind about whether she meant to tell Keeper Deshanna about the dreams. She had not yet raised them with anyone else. It seemed silly, to raise figments of her subconscious imagination and what was, as likely as not, a mere expression of her perpetually breaking heart. And yet—she could not quite dismiss the hulking wolf that haunted the edges of her dreams now and again, as if keeping an eye on her.

Setting the letter down, Guinevere rose from her seat and went to go kneel on the fur rug.

“Mamae! It’s a dog!” Nimue, delighted to have her mother’s attention off that boring paperwork, immediately lifted her toy for Guinevere to see.

“So it is, sweetling,” she said, thinking it was the wooden mabari she had seen in Nimue’s hands before. But when she examined what was being thrust in her face, she realized it was not the mabari, but one she hadn’t yet seen—it was a wolf.

“It’s my favorite.” Nimue smiled and offered the wolf to Guinevere. _It’s just a toy_ , Guinevere told herself, and took a deep breath, forcing herself not to take it away, before curling the girl’s hand more firmly around it. Then she pulled Nimue against her, smooching her neck until she squirmed and laughed. “Mamae!”

“I have a surprise for you,” Guinevere said. “We’re going to visit our family. Would you like that? You can meet Keeper Deshanna, and your grandfather, and your uncles, too.”

“Auntie Josie too?”

“No, Josie won’t come with us.” Gwen shook her head. “Just the two of us, how’s that?” Nimue frowned, so Gwen smiled to convince her. “It will be great fun! Wait until you see the aravels. They’re so beautiful, especially rolling through the long grass. And there will be proper Dalish cooking! And the songs we’ll sing when the sun goes down, and the dances…” Guinevere sighed, unable to convince herself the fanciful images lighting up her mind would be the truth of her trip, but reluctant to banish them. It had been so _long_ since she had been home… 

Guinevere opened her arm for Nimue to climb up, and she lifted the girl as she rose, which was getting more difficult—she was getting heavy for Gwen to heft around with one hand (however, Auntie Cassandra and Auntie Lace had no trouble, and Nimue shrieked with delight when they consented to tossing her in the air). Out on the balcony, Guinevere pointed over the mountain tops.

“Lavellan is far, far past the mountains,” she said. “In a place called Wycome, by the ocean, where boats sail all around the world. Do you want to see it?”

“Yes!” Nimue cheered, because talking about it made her mother smile, which meant it was Good. 

Guinevere nodded in agreement, and let that old longing for home, which she had battled to keep at bay for more than four years now, flood over her, and the thought of returning lift her spirit as a bird on the wind. Solas would still be there when she returned to the Inquisition, and all her fights would still be ongoing. But wouldn’t it be lovely, just for a few weeks, to pretend life could go on the way it had before the sky was torn asunder?

When she was done with that, she could busy herself arranging another _talk_ with Nimue’s father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized maybe I should have explained Nimue's name--it also comes from Arthurian mythology, like Guinevere, and I decided I might as well stick with that theme. Also, in some versions, Nimue goes on to defeat her teacher, Merlin, and seal him in a tree, and I was sort of toying with the idea of what if it wasn't Lavellan who defeated Solas in the end, but their child?
> 
> Anyway in Gwen's series I have a fair amount more Solavellan if you want more reading!
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/642841131242176512/surprise-developments-recalculating-end) | On Pillowfort
> 
> If you liked this, you might like [A Poor Substitute](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20452367) by neverending_shenanigans!


End file.
